


The Letter

by SourCherryBlossom



Category: Homeland
Genre: Angst, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 19:23:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2878109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SourCherryBlossom/pseuds/SourCherryBlossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Season 4.<br/>Mostly canon, except for certain items which were determined to be out of scope.<br/>Rated M for language and smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Strolling down the empty street, Carrie and Franny moved through the raw afternoon, bundled up, but still feeling the cold. Bleak winter light shone down on the mother and daughter, as Carrie pushed the toddler in the stroller, trying to get some fresh air despite the dark season, the cool weather, and her own internal landscape – dense clouds, heavy rain, and just about to go black. The child was cheerful, even thought she was just getting over a cold: Franny's nose was red. Carrie's nose was too, but not for the same reason.

When they arrived, the park appeared deserted. Bare branches pointed at the sky, like skeletal fingers accusing the sky of some ineffable decision that had resulted only in human suffering. Maybe the sky was to blame, Carrie thought blackly, something had to be. But as she turned the memories over in her mind again, like worry stones worn smooth from use, she came back to the same conclusion that she always did. The blame was hers. Her blond hair swung next to her cheeks, shielding her swollen eyelids from view. She always tried to control her crying on the way out – she reminded herself she could always cry on the way home. She pushed the stroller over frozen ground to the toddler playground, and unfastened Franny's safety belt. She set the toddler on her feet. "There you go, sweet girl. Go play," she said, watching the girl wobble off. She sat down on the nearby bench to wait for Billy.

As she always did, started at the top of the regret list, and worked her way down: Carrie's "what-ifs", miscommunications, regrets, mistakes, and downright stubborn bullheaded errors that had led her to this state of anxiety. About the only positive thing she had to say about her situation these days was that the outcome was unknown. Meanwhile, she was still functioning; she had her sister, her daughter. She went to work, albeit a different kind of work than she had done previously, but one that suited her current purpose. She had a few friends, new and old, and forced herself to spend time with them.

But though she did her best to continue to go through the motions like a normal person, she was emotionally crippled. God, she was  _wounded_ , she walked around all day, every day, feeling like she had a carving knife stuck in her chest. Nothing she could tell herself would lighten the pressure in her heart, so much worse at night, when there was no one to talk to. When it was late, and fear for him nearly ate her alive. At those times, deep in the night, she couldn't silence the self-recriminating internal voice that said, " _It's my fault, it's my fault, it's all my fault_." Then, lying in the dark in her childhood bedroom, she would jam her fist in her mouth, and weep.

It was late December, and it had been almost six months since she had heard from Peter Quinn. She winced at the memory of the moment of shock – the moment she realized that he was already gone, and that she had no way to contact him, that no amount of blackmail applied to Dar Adal was going to reveal his contact information – there simply wasn't any. This was followed by a long summer of tears and regrets, an autumn of silent depression, and a pensive winter of simply waiting, fearing, hoping, rationalizing. Going over the same ground again and again, like a madman looking for a lost coin. Inside this miasma of inescapable guilt, lay the crux of her pain: the feelings she had for this man who had so briefly touched her, held her. Most difficult of all, Quinn had created hope in her, hope now held in a pending state, until she could find him. Hope for love, acceptance, pleasure; hope for something like a normal life.

Her daughter, once so difficult for Carrie to accept and love, had become her saving grace. The only bright spot in her weary world. Franny squawked cheerfully on the playground, trying to pick up fistfuls of sand with her woolen mittens. Carrie smiled weakly and heard a voice next to her, say, "Whoo, if she isn't growing," and give a low, cheerful laugh.

"Hey," Carrie said, giving a genuine smile for the first time that day. "How are you, Billy." She stood and gave him a brief, tight hug.

"I'm doing alright. My brother and his wife came over last night, left me a mess of meatloaf. I'm stuffed like a tick." He sat back, gave a satisfied sigh, and then went quiet, watching Franny's solo playground antics.

Billy had been her Dad's "Park Friend", met while strolling in the park with Franny during the time Carrie was overseas in a danger zone. Her Dad, Frank, along with her sister Maggie, had been Franny's caregivers when Franny was a baby. Carrie had been overwhelmed with motherhood, and because of her ambition, topped with a big helping of post-partum depression and trauma, she had taken a post overseas. Working as Station Chief in Islamabad was a "dream job", as she described it to Maggie. But of course, since the Station was closed to dependents, she had left the baby here, and Frank had been a stand-in Dad for her kid. It was during those park visits that Carrie's Dad had befriended Billy, who in turn, became something more than a Park Friend to Carrie, after her father's death.

She hadn't seen Billy for a few weeks, and was glad to meet up with him. She had so few unjudging confidantes, and Billy's companionable silence allowed her to feel and say just about anything, or nothing at all. More than once, he'd listened to fractured parts of her tale, and, handing her a folded handkerchief, offered a quiet word or two of encouragement while she wept.

They exchanged pleasantries about the cold weather, the price of gas, her plans for the holidays, and reviewed Franny's latest list of accomplishments. "She can finish all the sentences in "Goodnight Moon," Carrie said, trying to contain her pride. "Oh, I have no doubt," smiled Billy, "She's gonna be a genius. Like her Mama." Carrie gave a crooked half-smile. She scuffed her feet on the gravel below the bench, and sniffled.

Small talk exchanged, they sat for a moment, and then Billy spoke.

"So," he drawled quietly, "Any word?"

Her kind old friend, sweet and concerned, was giving her an opportunity to speak about the matter that burdened her heart. Of course, she had never shared the deepest truth, that Quinn was overseas with a Black Ops group – that was just too radioactive for general consumption. All Billy knew, was that Carrie's "beau", as he referred to Quinn, was missing overseas in a dangerous military operation, and that she was losing hope that she would ever hear from him again.

She felt the lump in her throat grow.

"Not yet," she croaked. She stared into the distance, vision blurring through the tears that began to fill her eyes, and thought back to that single afternoon, and single moment when she had him in her arms, and in her life.

* * *

Things came to a head the night after her father's funeral. In the street outside Maggie's house, Quinn and Carrie walked slowly, chatting, enjoying the feeling of peace and safety, listening to the summer night wind. The canopy of trees above rustled, giving a feeling of shelter, as did the proximity of Quinn's bulk. He had been indulging his quirky humor that night, sipping Irish Whiskey, and smiling shyly whenever he could catch her eye. His shoulders were relaxed and his step was light – she didn't think she had ever seen him so content.

They had reached Quinn's pickup, and turned to face each other. His eyes, always so intense, seemed a deeper blue that night above the neck of his dark suit. As their conversation tapered off into a silence thick with emotion, his eyes searched her face, as if he desired to keep her there, memorize her. Her funeral dress fluttered around her bare knees, and she shivered. His expression, all night so tender, changed as she watched. It morphed something more eager, hungry. He dove for her mouth, and kissed her.

The years of suppressed passion between them burst into tinder, blossom, flame. Quinn's lips were soft, and a thousand times gentler than the rough and ravenous fuck-buddy she'd always imagined him to be. Careful, so careful, he was, like she was made of glass. His passion became more insistent, while his tongue searched her. He turned her, pressed her back into the truck, and brought his hands up to stroke her hair, her face. She was pinned, and put her arms around his neck, her hands into his hair. This was no routine seduction, no quick satisfaction of hormones. Quinn's kisses were telling her wordlessly that he  _loved_  her; she could feel it, feel  _him_ , giving himself over to this larger, uncontrollable awareness. And she was going with him. All the fear and pain that he felt for them both had been burned away by his yearning, into something lasting, something pure. One by one, other things, people, ideas, fell away, leaving him falling into her, dimensionless, ethereal. He moaned and his hand stroked her cheek. He slipped his lips down the side of her neck, sighing. And then, something broke loose inside her, and she turned away.

He stood back, disappointed, but compassionate. She thought her relationships had never worked out, had assumed that nobody would ever really love her and want to be with her, because of her bipolar disorder. She felt the same passion he did, felt the barriers between them breaking down like so much tissue paper. But she insisted she'd just fuck up anything they had, if they got involved. Quinn resolutely insisted that he had seen her at her worst, and when Carrie stated that with her, things always end badly, he said, "Until they don't." She had known he was a friend, she had known he was reliable, but she hadn't known how steadfastly he  _believed_  in her. His love was unwavering, his concern for her well-being was permanent. He wasn't proposing one hot night, nor even a series of them. He wanted the whole thing; was standing at the door of a real life with her. All she had to do was let him in. But years of conditioning and belief hamstrung her, and she couldn't bring herself to even try.

"Well, you think about it, Carrie," Quinn had said. He stroked her hair and cupped her cheek with one large hand, and she turned her face to kiss his palm. Then, eyes shining with something like adoration, he got in his silver pickup and drove off.

That was the last time she'd seen him.

* * *

She sighed. It was time to take Franny home, it was getting cold. Billy was shifting in his seat too. "I hope you have a good holiday, Carrie," he said, "and that you get what you want for Christmas," he said thoughtfully. She hung her head. He gave her another hug, and they parted ways, walking in opposite directions across the park.


	2. Chapter 2

On the way home with Franny, she let the tears flow, as the usual list of regrets started up in her head again, a bad movie set on infinite repeat. The story of all her mistakes, which she watched over and over, second guessing every decision that had brought them to this. Quinn had  _loved_  her, and after years of watching her, waiting, he had finally summoned up the courage to show her. What must it have cost someone who was so reserved, contained, protective of himself, to be open to another person? But instead of trusting him, her lifetime of inadequacies cropped up, and she shied. The consequences felt apocalyptic, they were a rupture in her soul.

* * *

After that magical night under the trees, Carrie had neglected to call Quinn. She had gotten more and more worked up about her bipolar disorder, and obsessed with the idea that her Mother had left her Father because her Dad had the disorder too. If my Mom left us, she had thought, then anyone I get involved with will eventually leave me. She had been convinced of this her entire life.

"Why didn't I call him up and tell him this?" she savaged herself, remorsefully. "Why didn't I say, 'Quinn, I need to see my Mother. Will you come?'" He surely would have come: he was eager to help her, be with her. But no, instead of calling him, taking him along, instead of emailing or texting, she just left. He waited, alone, impatient, for her to call. She took off like a maniac to drive alone to Missouri, to confront her mom and get the truth. A day passed, and the next time Quinn called, Carrie was still completely preoccupied with her Mom, and her newly discovered half-brother.

"I've been wondering about you," Quinn said. His voice sounded loving, worried. When she described her distress, he offered, "You want me to fly out? I could join you."

Why didn't she say yes? Or just tell him she loved him? They could have met at the airport, visited her mother, then driven back to Virginia together. After a weekend alone in a hotel, she thought, shuddering with deferred lust. He had wanted that, to be there for her. He got his strength when she leaned on him, she knew that now. But his resolution was faltering by the end of the call, and while she didn't remember precisely what came out of her mouth, it must have been discouraging, because what he heard was "no."

Later that day, she had realized her mother left her father because she was pathologically unfaithful. Nothing to do with bipolar at all. Hope leapt in her heart as she bolted back to the hotel room to call Quinn, but by the time she dialed his number, he was gone. Phone disconnected, email terminated, off the grid and unreachable. She could have screamed in frustration. Had she been a little more careful with his feelings, she would have realized that her perceived rejection made him feel like he wasn't worthy of her love. So he had brought her hope - and in return, she had crushed his out. He had lit out for the territories, with no forwarding address.

She had gone over it in her mind a thousand times in the aftermath. Despite visiting Dar Adal at his house immediately upon returning to Virginia, and using several different tacks, angles, slightly different attempts at prying the information out of him, she never got to the truth, until the last few moments.

"Give me what I fucking want," she had threatened, bringing the force of her personality to bear on the Black Ops leader.

"Carrie, even if I wanted to, I couldn't. Peter is gone; he's out on the Turkish border, about to cross into Syria."

"If he's on a mission, then you know how to contact him," Carrie insisted.

Adal, casual and unconcerned, shelled a peanut and ate it while Carrie watched impatiently. "Actually, I don't," he stated. "I just got off the phone with Ops 4. Peter's group went dark a little over an hour ago."

It clanged in her mind, idiotically.  _An hour. An hour. I missed him by an hour._

"The mission is open ended. They're responsible for their own extraction." Adal continued. Carrie's heart sank further.

"From Syria?" she asked, hysteria rising.

"From Iraq, most likely."

Adal was a brick wall, he had told her what he was going to tell her, and Peter was gone. She banged out the door of Adal's home, heaving enormous breaths, almost breaking into a panic attack in the car. She was thrown. There was no more game in her; there was no more leverage to apply. Quinn was gone, and gone dark. In her arms for a moment, his soft hands shining a searchlight down a path of normalcy, love, pleasure, and peace. Saying, heartbreakingly, that he wanted that life, but couldn't do it without her. The next, gone with a group of anonymous men and deadly hardware in a C130, up to their asses in loaded magazines, committing maps and numbers to memory, getting ready to drop into Hell on a platter. Quinn in a fucking war zone.  _Without her._  It was the worst kind of betrayal, she thought, too upset to even cry. In every way, she had failed him. Had she spared him a word or two, a moment of tenderness, a simple text message saying, "I need you," he'd be here right now.

On the stroll home, the tears that ran down her face in the winter light felt so hot that they burned her cheeks.

Carrie arrived at the house with Franny, and got her into a clean diaper for a nap. She fought the lethargy of her depression, trying to focus on what she had left of hope. Maggie waved at her as she moved through the kitchen to the mud room to hang up the winter gear, she could see Carrie was on the phone with Langley, and kept her peace. It was 2:30 on a Saturday, but she still wanted to check in with the Middle East surveillance desk, to see if there was anything new for her..

After Quinn's departure, Carrie had been paralytic with remorse by night. But by day, she forced herself to suck it up. Who knew what kind of hellhole Quinn was in right now? The better functioning she was, the better chance that she could be there to respond to him, help him, when he surfaced. She dug deep for her courage, and decided she had to try to do something to get him back, to find Quinn, to apologize, and see if they could start over. She refused to accept the possibility that he wouldn't come home at all.

Two weeks went past after his departure. Then three. After the congressional hearings and the internal debriefs regarding the Embassy incursion were completed, Andrew Lockhart had invited Carrie to his office for a chat. Carrie had found herself surprised to find that Lockhart was a pretty decent guy underneath his political exterior, an impression that was reinforced by his crusty use of language. "Carrie," he said tightly, "How you holding up?" He shook her hand warmly.

At that point, Quinn had been absent for four weeks. She wasn't sure how much Lockhart knew about Carrie's feelings, or her singleminded desire to extract Quinn and get him back in one piece. In retrospect, she had probably been the only person in Islamabad who hadn't known she was in love with Quinn. Even a cheerful blowbag like Lockhart understood what love was. He had brought lasagna to her Dad's funeral wake, for God's sake. Carrie had been too upset to eat it, but Maggie had said it was damn good.

"I'm ok, Chief," she said. "How about yourself?"

"I'm alright, I suppose. I'm still Director for now, though I don't know for how long. Or how much I can really do. So I thought we should spend some time now and review your options, before I don't have anything to say about it."

Carrie looked at Lockhart across the wide mahogany desk. "I can't accept another foreign posting right now. I don't feel comfortable leaving my daughter at this time, and there's…"

She looked at the floor, clamming up in midsentence, completely preoccupied. Lockhart contemplated her exhausted visage with sympathy. It looked like she hadn't slept for weeks.

"I can't move you up, not here. But I can give you a lateral position in the Middle East Surveillance Unit," he said. "It will keep you local, but give you the reach you need to look for, well, what you want to look for," he finished discreetly.

Carrie gratefully made eye contact with Lockhart, her expression grave. "I would be pleased to accept that position," she said. She stood to shake his hand again, and as he rose to meet her grip, a splash of coffee spilled from his mug onto his white dress shirt.

"Oh, mother  _fuck_  ." he hissed, then muttered, "Sorry."

Carrie repressed a snark of laughter. "Here, let me," and used a Kleenex to help him mop it off.

So that summer, she had started on a local posting, working nine hours a day with the Surveillance group. After work, she'd come straight home and relieve the nanny. In the early evenings, she and her sister spent time reading to Franny, cooking, folding clothes. Carrie helped Maggie's girls with their math homework in the evenings, while Maggie looked on, gratified. Carrie had considered renting a new condo nearby Langley, but in her current distracted state, Maggie suggested she stay. She was glad she had agreed: the support of Maggie and the nanny, as well as Franny and Maggie's two older girls provided enough noise and light in her life that she didn't worry about Quinn 100% of the time. "Only about 99%," she thought, sighing. More than just help with childrearing, Maggie was a calming influence in whom Carrie could confide her stories, theories, and her worries, as well as her feelings for Quinn, when she felt able to share them.

That evening, after the kids were in bed, Carrie and Maggie sat in the breakfast nook, finishing their tea. Carrie remembered to give her Billy's regards, and related a few stories from the chat they had that day. Eventually, Carrie ran out of small talk, and the conversation circled around to her biggest – her only – concern. They sat staring at a sky full of iron December clouds, which were threatening to snow.

"Maggie, I fucked it up, I knew I would," Carrie choked.

Maggie's heart could have bled for her. From what Maggie could see, Carrie's young man had obviously been very sweet on her, and it was clear she felt the same about him. "Carrie, if he can come back, he will. I wasn't around him much, but I could see how he felt about you," she finished.

Carrie turned to look at Maggie, a desperate light in her eyes, another sopping Kleenex clenched in her fist. If she could only hear the answer straight from Quinn! "How did he feel about me?" she asked, sniffling.

"Like he wanted to make a bunch of babies with you. A whole baseball team," she laughed. Her suggestive tone and ribald suggestion wrenched a laugh from Carrie's throat that was almost a sob.

"Maggie…" she said, tears coming again, "…. I miss him."

Maggie moved to sit next to Carrie. Goddamnit, she thought. More heartbreak, more pain. Carrie was the strongest woman she knew, the most loyal, and she loved most fervently. In her life, she had been through utter hell, but just kept getting back up. This man had been a good match for her in so many ways, and he was so very fond of her, anyone could see that. She chose her next words carefully.

"Carrie, I know he's off doing something… dangerous. You haven't said exactly what, but I can tell. Didn't you tell me, though, that he was really good at his job?" she said encouragingly.

"The best," Carrie said in a whisper, staring off desolately.

"Then have faith in him. He'd have faith in you," Maggie said. Carrie looked at her gratefully.

"I will. I do. But meanwhile, it's praise the Lord, and pass the ammunition. I have faith in Quinn, but I need to do  _something_." she said, rising. Carrie grabbed her coat and her set of car keys.

"Where you going this time of night?" Maggie inquired.

"Franny's sleeping," Carrie explained, "SATCOM is uploading a whole new set of images tonight, just in from Syria, Iraq, all around that fucking armpit. I want to review them."

"Go," Maggie said, waving her off. Thank God she had something useful to occupy her, and knowing Carrie's determination and intellect, she might actually do some good. "I'll take care of fuzzy butt, if she wakes up."

"Ok. And, thanks."

Back at Langley that night, she was the only one in the restricted access suite, reviewing files, documents, looking at maps, poring over photographs. Marking, projecting them on the enormous HD screen. Comparing old pictures to new, going forward in the satellite data of the target region first 24 hours, then 6 hours, then 1 hour at a time, rolling back and forth on the images. Trying to detect troop movements, tribal patterns, anything unusual. Her target area was enormous, her search image, not that specific. But she was good at spotting patterns, good at making associations. It was her stock in trade, and the skill that had made her such a valuable agent to begin with. And after years of working with drone strikes, she knew what almost every kind of military and civilian vehicle looked like from above. She hoped for a break, for anything that would give her a clue. But as the months stretched out after Quinn's departure, her efforts felt more and more desperate.

She had been considering the lateness of the hour, and her lack of sleep, and was just about ready to button it up for the night when her iPhone rang. Maybe it's Maggie, she thought, telling me to get my ass home. Or saying to pick up some infant Tylenol. But the phone said, "Unknown number" and it was from an international exchange.

Hmph, maybe it's Aasar Khan, wanting to breathe heavy in my ear, she thought, bleakly amused. She slid the call to "on" and lifted it to her ear.

"Carrie?" said a familiar, ragged voice on the other end of the line.

Carrie came to her feet, eyes wide, heart thrumming in her chest like the engine of a Peterbilt.

"Carrie," the voice said again, "It's Quinn."


	3. Chapter 3

"Can you hear me?" Quinn's rough voice called hopefully.

"Quinn," Carrie cried. The lump in her throat expanded and almost prevented her speaking. She gaped up at the live satellite images above her, as if she could see him there. "Quinn, where are you?" She sounded panicked.

His voice smoothed out, and hearing her panic, he started to handle her, calm her down. "Take a deep breath," he said, "Ad Dana, about 40 klicks from the Turkish border."

"What the fuck happened?" she fretted. "Why haven't I heard from you in six months? Are you in good shape, are you in custody, what?"

"I'm on a stolen burner phone, so I might have only a few minutes. I need to use them," he warned. "The job was FUBAR from start to finish."

"Tell me," she breathed.

"Adal and his superiors said they got word of a location of three high-value IS targets, in some fortified dump in Alleppo. When we got here, though, they were gone. We think someone had tipped them off."

Carrie's heart thundered. This is exactly what she had been afraid of. In the business of covert operations, it was hard to know whether a person was friend or enemy - even people you had known for years.

"Someone tipped them off, and they were gone. Or the cocksuckers were never here at all, and we were purposely sent on a mission of no return," he said through gritted teeth. "Only Rob and I survived the initial raid. And he fucked off to the east, to split their resources and hopefully buy us both some time."

"I'll say he bought you some fucking time," Carrie barked, "You've been gone for six months! Why, where are you?" she demanded.

"Let's just say I got… delayed. It was not a simple mission, and my self-extract wasn't simple, either. I had to bide my time, and even so, there were…" he seemed to swallow, and grunted, "damages."

"Fuck this, I'm coming to get you. Stand by for point data."

"I don't want you anywhere near this shithole, Carrie, that's not why I'm calling," he said.

She had been on the computers, looking in files, since he started the story of the busted raid. Carrie ignored his opposition, and said, "I'm reading you the name of an asset we maintain in Southern Turkey, the closest one to your location is Reyhanli, that's 25 klicks West of you, copy," she said, desperately turning pages and reading maps.

"I copy," Quinn said absorbedly.

Carrie continued, eyes racing over the search engine's readout. "Your asset is Mehmet Sahin, he runs a cheese shop called Peynirci, on the south side of town. Repeat back."

Quinn repeated it all back smoothly. "Reyhanli, 25 clicks to the West, Mehmet Sahin, Peynirci. I got it. But Carrie, you're not coming here. This part of the country is crawling with ISIS, don't you remember? There were bombings all over hell here in 2013. Just because it's into Turkey doesn't mean it's safe," he cautioned.

"I'm not going to lose you again, Quinn!" Carrie raged. "Unless you call me from Heathrow airport 72 hours from now, I am going over there and hauling your ass out!"

Quinn sighed. "Carrie, I'll head that way, I'll use the information, you have my word. But I need to use this call for something else. Can you just listen?" he asked, agitated.

Carrie sat down, her heart in her throat. "I'm listening," she said.

"I need you to know something," Quinn said. The coolness and control was gone from his voice, as he went on, dogged and insistent. Carrie closed her eyes.

"This never should have happened," he said. "I never should have taken this job, I should have stayed with you, talked it out," Quinn's voice went on, shaking. "I don't want you to think that any of this, ever, was your fault," he finished. He sounded well on his way to crying now, and Carrie felt the same.

"Quinn, no," she said. "I should have come to you, I should have told you the truth, that I needed you. I tried, I wanted to, but I was too late," she said, tears starting to trickle down her cheeks.

"Be that as it may," he said, "I could have stayed. I didn't have to sign up. And I want you to know something, in case I don't get out of here," he said.

She waited, heart rate soaring, eyes streaming tears.

"I'm in love with you, Carrie. I think I have been for a long time. And I regret not telling you sooner, because I think we would have been great together," he said, his voice coming hoarser and hoarser.

Carrie's head bowed forward as she started to sob. Why the fuck was he using the past tense? She could hardly get the words out, mumbled something. "What is it? Shit," he said, away from the phone. Then, his voice close and sweet again. "I think my time's almost up, here," he said, regretfully.

"… love you…" she managed to get out. "I need you, Quinn. Come home. I love you."

He sighed, tears apparent in his voice when he spoke again. "I will certainly make an effort. But you need to know one more thing, just so you're ready. I'm hit."

At that statement, Carrie felt like she had been shot, too. "What?! How bad?" she cried.

"In the torso. Not too deep, tissue damage, but no major organs. I've bound it, tried to keep it clean, but it might slow me down. You know? Now I need to go. I have to continue to evade these motherfuckers.  _Stay home_ , wait for me. I'm coming," he insisted. "Do you understand?"

Her chest heaved up and down with barely contained sobs. "Quinn!" she said, "Goddamn it, don't hang up yet," crying aloud.

"There's more to say. And there'll be time to say it. Just stay the fuck out of harm's way," he said. And then a moment later, more softly, "And say you love me, one more time."

"I do. I love you," she sobbed.

The phone went dark.


	4. Chapter 4

After Quinn rang off, Carrie drove back home in a fever of mental activity. She thought she could arrange her own travel through work, her past accomplishments had granted her that much clout, at least. Lockhart would see to that. She needed to check into additional resources on the ground, in Turkey, and make a half-dozen other arrangements to provide a safe extraction. After her time in Istanbul, she thought it was highly likely that she could get a ground team ready and get out to Reyhanli, a few hours after landing, and pick Quinn up herself. She pulled into the garage, and practically ran inside.

She turned on her computer and started some of the background searches, functions, seeking asset lists, designing backup plans, looking for and finding a few stacks of Euros, Benjamins, and her service pistol, stiff from disuse. She cleaned and oiled it with steely concentration; then put it near its travel case with a couple of extra magazines, which she filled with hollow-point ammunition. From the back of her closet she pulled her Kevlar vest, another item she hadn't used since Franny was born. She tossed it on the bed by her suitcase, as the noise and bustle finally awoke Maggie, who pushed into the room, blinking.

"What the hell, Carrie," she said, rubbing her eyes. "It's four A.M."

Carrie's eyes flashed up at Maggie as she strapped on her shoulder holster, checked the fit, removed it and adjusted it again. "Quinn's alive, Maggie," she said breathlessly.

Maggie's eyebrows went up, and she gasped. "Oh, my God. Oh, Thank God for that. But Carrie, what is all this? Where is he, why are you packing?"

She continued to feverishly arrange her travel items, the tools of the trade, her agency computer and personal gear. "He's in fucking Syria, near the Turkish border. Shot in the abdomen," she said, as Maggie drew her breath in through her teeth with a little hiss. "I gave him an extraction point and provided an asset, but I need to go get him out, Maggie," she said. Her blond hair was in a ponytail, her eyes were on fire, fingers flying over the packed items, the weapon. Quinn's call had awakened a mania in her that no medication could dispel.

"OK, Carrie, OK," she said, knowing she wouldn't be able to slow this train, even if she stepped in front of it. "I'll stay here and look after Franny. But I wish you'd leave it to the professionals," she said.

Carrie glared at her, banging the slide of her nine-millimeter open and shut with an authoritative click. "I am a fucking professional," she snapped. Maggie threw both hands up in surrender, and walked back out of the room.

A few hours later, the sun rose over Eastern Virginia. Franny had kissed her Mommy goodbye, and with tears in her eyes, Carrie had headed for the car, loaded with her bags for the trip, as she headed to Langley. She was going to sit outside Lockhart's office and interface with Lockhart the moment he arrived. She would request transfer to Istanbul station, she would press him for people, materials, restricted clearances, she would lie, cheat, extort, do everything but knock the place over to provide support for Quinn. When Lockhart's secretary arrived, she took one look at Carrie's wild-eyed state, leaning forward on the couch, and simply said, "Wait right here." A few minutes later, Lockhart himself appeared, pushing the door open with his back, carrying two boxes of Dunkin Donuts. "I'm here, I'm here," he said, "Haven't seen you in a few weeks. What's the fire drill?" he asked, handing the donuts off to his admin.

Carrie rose immediately to her feet. "In your secure room, Director," she said, with the no-bullshit voice that made everyone at Langley cringe.

In an hour, Carrie had gotten Lockhart up to speed on what she had learned in the call. She provided him with every bit of intel she had: him GPS coordinates, names, cities, situations, even the suspicion that this was a blown Op from the start, and concerns about where the tip came from. He listened, sympathized, and took a few notes, as well as accepting her documentation. "It's all there, Chief, on my computer, and in the Middle East Surveillance suite," she said.

He exhaled. "Carrie, it'll be dangerous," Lockhart said.

Carrie said nothing, nodded. "Yes, it will," she said severely.

"You have my authorization," he said, signing a couple of forms for her, "and my support. I wish I could do more, Carrie. In Istanbul, they'll be fully informed. Good luck." He knew who to pass this on to, to get the ball rolling in Turkey. Carrie got up.

"Thanks, Chief," she said briefly, and stepped out to head to the base travel agent. Gone like a puff of smoke, he thought, watching her leave.

She was all business now, and wanted to be on the first flight out of D.C. that got her remotely close to Istanbul. She gave the harried travel agent rapid-fire directions and airport names, and while the flustered woman worked the keyboard, Carrie dug through her purse, eventually dumping it out entirely, looking for her passport. In her frenzy of preparations, she'd forgotten it. "Shit," she said, perturbed. Leaving the offices, she went outside and jumped in her car, heading back home to Maggie's house. One more quick stop, she thought. Just then, she heard a text message come in on her cell.

It was Maggie. "Come home," was all it said. Maybe something was wrong with Franny? Well, she was already on her way home, so she put the pedal down, hoping to arrive a few minutes sooner.

Turning into their peaceful neighborhood, Carrie felt an inkling of disquiet when she saw a large black SUV parked in the driveway. As she approached, her stomach began to clench, then drop into a ball of nausea. She gripped the steering wheel, and her hands, now growing cold, made white knuckles as she took in what she was seeing. Her disbelief and self-control held for a moment yet, while she parked the car and got out, heart pounding. She felt fear, such terrible fear.

Maggie's face was an agonized mask of grief. She hadn't looked like that since Dad died. Standing on the front walk next to her was a young man of about 25, along with two young Marines in dress uniform. They were accompanied by an older man, in a round collar, clearly a chaplain. Carrie moved across the lawn towards them like a sleepwalker, mouth open, eyes round and terrified. The very air stood still. This is what it must have felt like, Carrie thought, to be next to the Trinity site right before the first nuclear test. She approached the young man, who had turned to face her, his eyes red.

"Carrie Anne Mathison?" he asked formally. She looked at the men, at her sister's stricken face, at the young man's hands, which were shaking. He held out a white business-sized envelope to her. She immediately recognized the handwriting, saw her name.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," the young man said.

Carrie fell to her knees, and began to scream.


	5. Chapter 5

Silence, darkness, a taut bubble of memory. A shift in the quiet bed, a sweet dream you don't want to wake out of.

Sunlight comes, then darkness again. Out there, foreboding. Something evil is waiting. Something so bad, that knowing it will obliterate all chances of future happiness. Life will never feel good again. So go to sleep.

Sunlight comes again, and the heaviness of the bad thing hovers around the edges. It's not just a loss, it's the worst possible loss. It comes too close and savages your soul with sharp teeth. Carrie screams again, feels a prick in her arm, and fades away.

Over her pallid face, hovered the worried, loving visage of her sister. Nights and days pass like this, before Carrie finds the strength to re-enter consciousness, sit up, and look around her room. She had been trying not to know, trying to evade the news, hoping if she could just not-know, it wouldn't be true anymore. Finally, after a week, she opened her eyes, feeling heavy as lead, but lucid.

Weak afternoon light filtered through the curtains. She saw their nanny, Sybil, sitting on a chair next to her bed, by a tray which held a mug of tea and a few crackers. Sybil looked up from her book when she saw Carrie awakening. "I'll get Maggie," she said, leaving hurriedly.

Maggie came in, sat on the edge of Carrie's bed. She held Carrie's hands in both of her own, her eyes misty. "How are you doing?" she asked.

Carrie didn't answer. She sat up, swallowed, and looked around. "I don't know," she said honestly.

Ever practical, Maggie said, "Well, it's the first time in a week that you've been awake, and I haven't had to sedate you. So that's something. Here, sip this," she said. Carrie accepted the lukewarm tea and sipped at it, not tasting.

"Did they tell you what happened to him?" Carrie said, the misery turning her insides into twisted concrete.

"That young man, Dale. The one who delivered the letter? He told us a few things," she said.

Carrie waited. "Dale said there had been word on the Com that a man's body had been found west of Alleppo, that the physical description matched Quinn's," she said, looking down at her hands. "He didn't have a lot more details," she finished.

"Who said that?" she said. "How do they know? I talked to him the night before, there was no time to check dental records," she uttered painfully. Something about the situation was fishy, and even in her grief, she felt uneasy. Her business was information, verification. But Adal's Ops group had distributed the bad news. No doubt Quinn's injury had overcome him, as he shipped out west, trying to find a better way through the mountains to the rendezvous point. Or maybe, he had simply been captured and killed. Almost out of tears, despair clutching her heart like a glove, Carrie closed swollen lids over sore eyes.

After a moment, Maggie said diplomatically, "I don't know, Carrie. They sounded pretty sure of themselves." As a doctor, she'd had to deliver a lot of bad news, and she knew the best route for the bereaved was to comprehend and accept the loss, no matter how difficult it might be. "In any case, I'm glad to see you sitting up and talking sense," she said.

Maggie stood and walked to the window. On Carrie's desk, the letter lay. Maggie touched it gently with her fingertips. "I put this right here, for you," she said. "For whenever you're ready."

Turning back to her sister, Maggie walked towards the door. "If you feel up to it, why don't you get dressed? Come sit on the couch for a few hours. Franny's missing you," she said. She left quietly and shut the door.

After some time, Carrie braced herself, drank the rest of her tea in about five swift gulps, and pulled the covers back. She was overdue for a hot shower, and she wanted to see Franny. Sweet baby face, what must she have been thinking? If Quinn were here, she thought, chest hitching with sobs, he would want me to go see Franny, to get moving.

Leaving the letter on her desk, not touching it, or even really looking at it, Carrie showered, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, and went downstairs.

A day passed. Then two. Then another, long and gray. Each day alike, a blur of misery and hopelessness. No more information came, neither from Adal's team, nor her own. She knew that often, Black Ops team members didn't even have a body to present when they died on missions. It reminded her of a story she heard from a colleague back at Langley, a young woman from Ohio who had family that worked in the steel mills.

In the mills, the young woman had said, accidents were common. People were injured and died all the time. The huge blast furnaces, stoked with coke and steel, were incredibly dangerous to work around, and in the days before OSHA and unions, it wasn't unheard of for people to die at work in incredibly gruesome ways.

Typical Langley, fucking people greedily taking in information about exotic modes of death, like a bunch of freaks, she thought. Sitting around tables in the sunlight, munching on sub sandwiches, they listened to the young woman tell a tale which Carrie eventually validated through other sources.

Sometimes, the woman had said, there would be an accident. A person would fall into the huge ladle of steel that was ready to be poured. The heat from the molten steel would liquefy the victim's body, instantly. The steel couldn't be used, because it was contaminated, she explained, so the workers would pour it out in a waste location, then break a chunk off with a sledgehammer when it was cool. The chunk of steel would be delivered to the widow, so she would have something to bury.

Now she knew how they felt, those steel widows. Quinn had entered a hot zone, and simply disappeared. Carrie didn't even have a chunk of tainted metal. With his death, her heart, too, had been dropped into a blast furnace, turned to ashes. She was so agonized by Quinn's death that she was almost beyond the reach of grief. When something is dead and has no nerves, how can you expect it to process, to mourn, to feel?

For days, she avoided the letter like it was an infection. But by the end of the fourth day, she felt slightly different. She didn't have much religious upbringing, no spirituality to speak of. But there were times when she swore that she could still feel Quinn near her, around her. She desperately wanted to see the letter, to hear his words in her mind. But she also knew it was the last time she'd ever hear from Quinn. Once she read the letter, and used it up, it was all over. She would have to make do with that for the rest of her life.

Still, Carrie needed to know what it said. Five days after Quinn's death was reported to her, she sat down at her desk, opened the letter, and looked at it. She noticed what looked like dried water droplets – tear stains, they must have been – on the closely lettered notepaper. She pictured him, sitting by himself, writing these words out, with tears in his eyes. She sighed, achingly, and with tears running down her own cheeks, she unfolded it, and began to read.


	6. Chapter 6

Dearest Carrie,

If you're reading this, then the worst has happened. I don't even know where to start, because our life together has been filled with such turmoil, and our time so brief, that I don't even know how you really feel. But my Mom and Dad are dead, and I have no other next of kin. Please read this and accept it; keep it, and remember it. I have no legacy but you.

First, let me say how much I love you. I want that understood, up front. You know it, don't you? We came together so slowly, you and I. I felt that I had to be careful, duplicitous; I had to protect my objectives. But from the first time we met, I want you to know that I went to sleep every night after, thinking about your face. I have wanted to hold you, comfort you, touch you. I guess we humans are fools for holding back on love and pleasure, when they are right within reach. What I regret most is that I didn't reach out, tell you how much I care, and make love to you, while I still could. Maybe you would have slapped my face, but I should have tried.

I want you to know what I wanted for us, Carrie. I saw you at your worst – do you remember when I said that? And I still love you completely. So deeply, that I was willing – still am willing – to take a chance on you, condition and all, care for you and love you through anything you might become. I want you that badly, I cherish you that much. I wish I had pushed back, last night, standing by my truck. I should have insisted. I wish I had told you that I understood the risks, and that they were mine to take. I should have grabbed you, pulled you to me, made you understand.

We used to talk, or try to. Do you remember what I said once: "I'm reliable?" Well, I meant it. The worst thing about writing this letter is that I know that if you're reading it, I'm gone, and I won't be able to protect you anymore. I know you are strong, that you can survive and take care of yourself and your daughter. But I am sorry, so sorry, not to be there. Not to be reliable for you. Please forgive me.

I am shoving off soon, so time is short. But what I want you to know is that even though we never really had our time, the greatest moments of pleasure, love, delight, and happiness that I had in my dark and lonely life, I had because of you. You were the warmth in my cold world. I thank you for teaching me what true love is, Carrie. And if love should ever come to you again, please reach out for it.

You are the beneficiary of my Wells Fargo account, and what possessions I have should be sold for cash, unless you find anything you want. I want you to use the money to send Franny to college. I wish I could have known her better.

For now and forever, I am the angel on your shoulder, babe. Don't forget me.

-Quinn


	7. Chapter 7

It was late January, a raw time of year. On the Eastern seaboard, winter was letting go, just a little. The preceding week's weather had been unusually warm, and Carrie, having re-engaged in life to some small degree, had started to take afternoon runs when she got off work.

It had been 7 months since Quinn had shipped out on that job, 26 days, 9 hours, and 20 minutes since Carrie had learned of his death. Maggie had upped her antidepressants, and kept a close eye on her, but Carrie had continued on her bipolar meds and kept steady, as far as Maggie could tell. Her attendance at Langley had been spotty at first, but her new team had given her a lot of leeway. Most of them didn't know Quinn, they only knew she had lost a loved one, and left her alone. In the last month, she had moved from the very worst paralytic grief – the letter had utterly destroyed her – into a deep winter of emptiness. She bathed Franny, she spoke to her nieces, she functioned, to show the strength that Peter would have hoped for. But her ashen heart was numb, so numb. Sleep had deserted her altogether for a time, and she spent many nights curled into a tight ball on her bedroom floor, replaying her single kiss with Quinn over and over in her mind, like a home movie of unbelievable poignancy. Her grief was bottomless, agonizing. She was glad she had started running again. It had helped with her sleep, at least a little.

People had dropped by to console her, when the news went around. Sweet Max, twisting his cap in both hands, asking that he be informed when the memorial service was. He hadn't even liked Quinn, but he got over himself for Carrie's sake. He knew what it felt like to lose someone he loved, and the understanding reflected in his eyes brought her some small comfort. She had wanted to wait for a body, for ashes, for something to bury, before she arranged the service, and she told Max she'd call him when she knew.

Saul had stopped in as well, aged, downtrodden and looking guilty, somehow. She wondered what the fuck he'd been up to, where he had been when she needed him, but didn't care enough to ask. When he patted her hand and stood to leave, she hadn't even looked up.

Lockhart came too, a few days after she read the letter, with an orchid for Carrie. Sensitive, and much kinder than she'd have expected, he assured her that her information had been sent out, and that there was a support effort in the field for the other agents in this raid. There was a rumor of a surviving operative, who had holed up in a hospital in Iskenderun, but he hadn't been able to validate the lead. There had been no word on Quinn's body, or when he could be shipped home for burial, if ever. "I'm sorry, Carrie," Lockhart had said, sadly. "I'm really trying. But you know how this goes." Carrie nodded, choking on her grief, Maggie standing behind her with a hand on her shoulder. Quinn wouldn't have cared what happened to his body, she thought. He wasn't fixated on material things, wouldn't have been bothered about a grave. She hoped that someday she'd be recovered enough to use his estate to buy a headstone for him, just to have a place set aside to visit, and mourn. But as yet, she had been too incapacitated by the tragedy to even consider calling a lawyer.

What Quinn would have cared about was her mental state, she knew that. She made an effort, went to work, took her medication, took her vitamins, and tried to eat and get fresh air. She fought the acute physical ache of sorrow every day; getting out of bed was a Herculean effort. Sleep was the only relief she got from the crushing depression, because sometimes, she dreamed of him.

She made sure she played with her daughter, but went to bed as early as possible every night, just to be alone. She usually fell into an exhausted sleep between nine and midnight, then woke from dreams of Quinn, of love, of the future, of loss, and cried off and on for the rest of the night. But in the morning, Carrie pressed on, showered, dressed, and kept moving. It's what he would have wanted, she told herself. Even in death, his love sustained her.

On her runs, she mulled over again her shared history with Quinn, her past, and all the reasons she'd had to keep apart from close relationships. She had pushed people away. She felt there was no way anyone would fall in love with her, and try to build a life with a manic-depressive. Her sexual hookups were remote, dispassionate, brief physical acts. Even her mad affair with Brody had passed into the shadow of her memory, a bright bottle-rocket of feeling, and then gone. She didn't feel lovable, and though lonely, she was emotionally out on an iceberg somewhere. Sometimes, she had wondered what it was going to take for her to love, trust, and connect with someone. Someone who was willing to take that risk. Well, now she knew. And he was gone.

So almost four weeks had gone by, and this day had brought her here, back to the park. She needed to be out of the house, she needed to breathe. She sat on a bench, after looking around for Billy, and then inclined her head back, looking at the sky. Resting here in her running gear, she let the soothing sounds of Dexter Gordon flow through her earbuds. A fine old tune of his came on, called, "Where are you?" Fucking iPod, always slinging her a curve ball. But she needed to feel it, to feel alive, to remember Quinn, even if it hurt. Music, that's another thing she hadn't gotten to share with him. She would have loved to sit on the floor at Maggie's house with Quinn, go through her Dad's jazz albums, sharing a nip of single-malt. Another lost dream for another lifetime, she thought, and swiped at the corner of her eye.

Her iPhone beeped and vibrated in her pocket. Maggie again, no doubt. Swiping it open, she looked at the message, again, another urgent "Come home," it read.

Now what the fuck, she thought. She sat up, and started walking back towards the house. "What is it," she messaged back irritably.

"JUST COME HOME," came the imperative, pinging in from Maggie's phone. Good God, Carrie thought, you don't have to scream at me, I'm hurrying.

Carrie made the final turn onto her street, walking briskly. In the driveway of the house stood an unfamiliar vehicle. Fuck, not again, she thought. It's never good news. Maybe the hot water heater blew up; she thought pessimistically, maybe one of the girls hurt themselves? She started to trot.

Halfway down the block, Carrie made the truck. A practically new silver Ford F-150. Involuntarily, she felt a stab of excitement in her chest, then thrust it back down. That was impossible. Still, she picked up the pace. Her breaths came faster. I'm imagining things, she thought. Maybe it's the plumber, or something.

But it wasn't the plumber, and it wasn't her imagination. Two houses down from home, and Carrie's heart began to leap in her chest, because in the front yard stood a tall figure. Brown hair, tanned skin, navy shirt, leather jacket. She would know his shape, his body, his face anywhere. She wondered if she had gone insane.

"Quinn!" Carrie shrieked, wondering if she had finally lost it, wondering if she was screaming at a ghost. But no, he heard her voice, turned and saw her, and the relief and love that broke over his face was so vast, it was terrible to behold. Then he was walking towards her, arms open. She broke into a dead run, eyes on his beloved form as she approached him, tears streaming and calling his name. He caught her as she leapt off the ground into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist, holding him close, arms around his neck. It was Quinn, he was real. He was alive. He held her there, off the ground, held her tight, her face buried in his shoulder. He stood, swaying on the lawn, holding her as if she was light as a feather.

His throat was full of his own tears, as he nearly sobbed himself. "Shhhhh. Shhhh. I'm here, I'm here." Carrie's cries were a release, as she sobbed out her torment, still calling his name, gripping him around the neck, legs holding him tightly. Quinn's eyes closed tightly, as he held her to him. His arms crushed her, like he would never let her go. Eventually her sobs subsided a bit, and he relaxed and set her down on her feet, still holding her arms to steady her.

"Are you ok?" she asked, nearly hysterical. "Those fuckers told me you were dead," she said, bursting into tears again.

"They fucked up," he said, rubbing her back between the shoulder blades, turning and walking her up towards the house. "Fucking new guy, distributing Letters before anyone sent confirmation. It was Rob that died. It was crazy out there. Poor bastard," he sighed. They walked up the driveway, Quinn's hand on Carrie's back to steady her from the shock.

Maggie had been watching the whole show from the front window, and opened the door for them, dabbing at the corners of her eyes. "Boy, are we glad to see you, Peter," she said. Quinn smiled at her mysteriously, and stepped over the threshold.

Around the kitchen table, the three of them drank coffee after a quick, improvised spaghetti dinner from Maggie's pantry. Quinn confessed that he was starved for good American food, and it was clear to both of the women that Quinn had lost a few pounds during his months away.

Maggie served spaghetti to Franny, as well, along with a plate of cut-up green beans. From her high chair, the toddler goggled at Quinn and her mother. "I hope you like marinara sauce," Maggie said.

"I will eat anything without goat meat in it," Quinn intoned seriously. Carrie exhaled a soft laugh, a plate untouched in front of her. She couldn't take her eyes off of him. Maggie was amused to see that Carrie drank her coffee with her left hand, because she was seated to Quinn's left, and had been using her right to grip his wrist, and wouldn't let go, even while they were eating. Their knees touched under the table. Maggie piled the dishes in the sink and made sure everyone was comfortable, before kissing Carrie on top the head, squeezing Peter's shoulder, and excusing herself to go upstairs with Franny. "Good night, you two," she said. "Welcome home." Quinn clasped her hand briefly, and smiled.

"She's grown," Quinn observed, looking at Franny, who peeped at him over Maggie's shoulder.

"She's a good girl," Carrie said, heart in her throat. "Maggie took care of us, and we've been ok. But I want to know what the fuck happened, Quinn." She waited expectantly.

"You saved my life, is what happened," he said. Her eyebrows went up. "You  _did_. That one phone call, the location of a sympathetic asset, that's what saved my ass."

She sat back in the chair, waiting for a full explanation. He pushed his plate away and sighed.

"The job was a setup, we know that now. I did some digging, via a friend at the French Embassy in Istanbul," he said. With the mention of another foreign embassy "friend," Carrie's eyebrows went up. "Not that kind of friend," Peter said quickly.

He continued, "We never found any high-level ISI operatives in Alleppo, because there never were any. My team and I dropped right into a kill zone," Quinn stated disgustedly. "The tip that Adal got on the location of the ISI leaders was corrupt, and my French connection was able to link it back through the source to Tasneem Qureshi."

"That fucking bitch," Carrie growled.

"Yeah. And then some. Adal's source had been reliable until last year, but Marie-Louise was able to locate a large payment dumped into his account early last year, that could be traced back to one of ISI's offshore bank accounts. The prick is in a rather large house in Monte Carlo right now, snorting coke off the tits of the local wildlife," he said.

Carrie sighed. "And the purpose, the whole point, was…"

Quinn shrugged. "Deplete Adal's group. Create havoc. Put a bad face on the US.  _Again_. Waste talent," he said succinctly.

He stood up and held his hand out to her. His face was darkly tanned, his fresh haircut revealing a line of lighter skin around the hairline. She put her hand in his, and they walked together to the living room. His eyes were grave, his mood quiet. Now that she saw through her excitement, he looked as exhausted as she felt. She walked to the sideboard, and picked up a bottle. She held it up to him by way of invitation. "Two fingers?" she asked.

He nodded without speaking. As she set down glasses, she realized that she had grabbed the last if the Irish Whiskey that Quinn had brought to her Dad's funeral. She smiled, a little sadly. Dad would have loved this moment, he would have liked Quinn. She handed Quinn the drink, and sat down across from him.

"How did you get out?" she asked quietly. "And where have you been for the last few weeks? Not that I'm complaining, now you're here," she cautioned, holding up her hand.

Quinn smiled, and sat up. He pulled his shirttails out of his pants and unbuttoned the lower four buttons, then held up the shirt to show Carrie the left side of his torso. A star-shaped red scar twisted across his abdomen, sloping around his back. Carrie sucked in her breath. Quinn turned, showing his muscular back, where a matching wound sprawled, still red and angry looking. "Exit wound," he said, indicating behind him.

"Jesus Christ!" Carrie cried. "That's your little flesh wound?"

He dropped his shirt back down and leaned back on the couch. "Yeah," he said simply. "I'm lucky to be alive. When we hung up, I had to shake a group of loose ISI tribal fucknuts, who were sent out after the survivors to clean up the mess. One of them must have been a reasonable tracker, because I didn't lose him until the Turkish border."

"I'm not sure how much more of this I want to hear," she said, sickly.

Quinn shrugged. "I had been out of ammunition, had no support, I was self-extracting in the dark, moving at night, and trying to sleep and steal food during the day. The blood loss slowed me down. The only time I stopped moving was the morning I pinched the cell phone out of someone's bag in a market stall, and called you. I probably only made it three or four klicks a day until I got to Reyhanli," he said. "I was lucky the asset was solid, and I was  _very_  lucky his Mother in Law was in town."

Carrie took a sip of whiskey, shook her head. "I'm not getting you," she said.

Quinn smiled. "Mehmet Sahin is married to the daughter of an American Expat. You knew that, right?"

Carrie shook her head. "I can't remember. I picked him because he was close to you."

"Well, he was just close enough, and when I got there, Sahin and his wife let me in. When the Mother-in-Law snapped to the situation and realized I was an American, she insisted that Sahin take me to the hospital in Iskenderun. His wife patched me up, fed me, and Sahin smuggled me northwest to Iskenderun, checked me into the hospital under his brother's name. I was septic by then, out of it. But maybe that was for the best, because I didn't have to speak," he said. "When I recovered from the infection, I ditched the hospital and lit out for Istanbul. I hitchhiked to the French Embassy, made contact with Marie-Louise, and transferred any useful information to her, for our allies. In return, she did that bit of research for me. Then I shit, showered, shaved, and got home as fast as I could."

"Good thing you caught a healthy tan out there," Carrie said, her voice shaking.

He nodded in agreement. "We owe that asset a big favor, Carrie."

Carrie finished her drink, and thought for a moment. "I just realized something. You were in Istanbul on your own recognizance for 48 hours, in airports for maybe the next 24. But you didn't fucking call me?" She frowned, trying to appear more stern than she felt.

He smiled at her, his eyes memorizing her again, and said, "I needed to see your face. Nothing less would do." She looked back at him, and their eye contact intensified, held, almost ignited the air in the room. His gaze on her body, her breasts, held so much want that it was almost explicit. She wavered, still unable to believe he was alive and well.

"You were so fucking lucky," she said thickly, leaning forward, lip trembling, her eyes filled with hot tears.

He looked at her, his eyes deep wells of love and tenderness. "I had a reason to live," he said simply.

He stood up and walked to her, and reaching for her hand, he pulled her to a stand. They looked into each other's eyes, said nothing, holding both hands.

"Carrie?" he asked, his thumbs stroking her palms.

"Quinn," she said, "I read your letter."

He smiled, and couldn't find another word to say. Still holding hands, they walked up the stairs to her bedroom.


	8. Chapter 8

Carrie and Quinn tiptoed down the hall, and went into Carrie's room together. They both took off their shoes, and Quinn stood next to the bed, seemingly waiting for something, arms at his sides. Carrie turned off the bedside lamp, plunging the warm room into near darkness, the only light a stream of yellow moonglow from the windows. She walked back over to Quinn, just able to see him in the gloom, and saw him raise both his hands up, palms out, and facing her. He stood, just looking at her, soberly, silently, his expression a visible ache. He didn't move, but held his hands still in this silent appeal. His face worked, like he was containing a flood of tears.

He was alive. After the nightmare of the previous seven months, she still wanted to pinch herself, she still thought she might be dreaming. She walked slowly to him, lifted her hands, and placed her palms against his. They touched in the sacred stillness, both of them too weary of pain to know how to accept pleasure. Their eyes met, their fingers interlaced, and in that instant, the immense emotion of their reunion toppled them both, a grimace of pain on Quinn's face, his mouth twisted as if he was about to cry out. Their knees buckled, and they both fell down onto them, landing face to face, forehead to forehead. Unable to control her tremendous well of feeling, Carrie began to cry piteously, as Quinn rested his head on her shoulder, released her hands, pulled her close. They knelt together, his arms wrapped tightly around her, their chests and bellies touching.

"Oh, God, Quinn," she sobbed quietly, "I thought you were dead, I thought you were dead. I thought I'd never see you again," her arms went around him as they knelt together in the dark. Relief and sadness took her, and he held her while she cried.

"I know, I know," Quinn sighed, his breath coming irregularly, rubbing her back and bracing her up. "I am sorry, Carrie, so very sorry. I am so sorry for what you've been though." His voice was ragged, he almost choked on the words. A few sobs choked out of him, shaking as he held her, stroking her back. His face pressed into her shoulder.

They knelt in the dark together, arms around each other, both shedding tears of relief and love. The worst of their pain was discharged into the night air, as they held on for dear life, cried for what they had nearly lost, and what now been had returned. Carrie lifted her head, her tear-stained face white in the dark bedroom. She stroked Quinn's hair, his cheek. She had no idea how to say all the things in her mind, what she'd been through for the last few months, her feelings for him, her intentions about their future. She put her hands on the front of his shirt, and started to unbutton it. Her tears tapered off to sniffles, as her hands busily worked, and he gazed at her face.

"Carrie?" he inquired, still kneeling.

She pushed his shirt open, put her hands on his bare chest, and slid it off over his shoulders, her hands delicately passing over the scar on his side. She looked up at him and said, simply, "I'm ready."

Quinn needed no further urging. He cast his shirt aside, helped them both to stand, and looking in her eye with a desire that was almost frantic, he kissed her. Pulling her close, her head cradled in the crook of his arm, his other arm around her body, stroking, comforting. "Carrie," he moaned, her name like a prayer on his lips. He kissed her neck, her cheeks, her eyelids, and his hands came up and started to undress her. Her hands dropped to the waistband of his pants and began to unbutton. He pulled her shirt over her head, threw it aside. In another moment, they were both naked, touching, kissing, caressing in the dark, tears still drying on their faces. His lips were on her neck, her breasts, and next he was pushing her down onto the bed. He moved above, hovering over her in the darkness, his rigid member a coil of pressure against her thigh, and her body quivered. It had been so long since she had physical pleasure, she had forgotten what it felt like.

She stroked his chest, his back, his arms, as he kissed her neck, and with his mouth close to her ear, so as not to disturb the household, he began to whisper words of love. His fingers roved down into her cunt, and found her passage, entering her gently, dipping in again, moving back out, smoothing her wetness, working her clit. She gasped, and listened to his whispers, eyes closed, heart exploding with relief and love.

"All that time in the desert, Carrie, all that danger. Getting shot at, being lost, being injured. Do you know what kept me alive, do you know what I thought about?" he asked, in a violent whisper. "Do you?" He sounded almost crazed with love, loss, and tenderness. His fingers probed and stroked, arousing her, wetting her, moistening her opening for him, only for him. His desire overcame him, and he leaned over and bit her neck. She gasped his name as a question, "Quinn!" a little too loudly. His left hand clamped down over her mouth, gagging her from further outburst. He leaned up over her face, his eyes taking on a wicked glaze, his right hand still working her.

"Shhhhhh," he cautioned in her ear, rubbing her harder, but more slowly. His restraint of her mouth was incredibly erotic, and she spread her legs further to facilitate his tender assault. Still, his feverish love-words streamed into her ear, savage whispers rife with frustration, pain, and desire.

"That night by the truck," he panted, "I never should have left you, Carrie. I should have carried you off. I should have taken you home with me, and fucked you. Put my cock inside you. I should have made you come so hard you lost consciousness. I should have woken you up in the morning with my mouth on your cunt. I need you, Carrie, I need to be with you, I can't live without you," his charged whisper became almost a cry. All the while Quinn brought her closer to the edge as his talented fingers worked. His cock, feeling impossibly hard, pressed urgently into her thigh. Carrie rolled her eyes, and tried to turn her head. She moaned under his hand, softly pleading. But his hand stayed clamped on her mouth, gagging her, his lips still kissed her cheek, and moved up to her ear, continuing his quiet litany of erotic possession.

"I'm going to make you come. Then I'm going to fuck you. I'm absolutely crazy about you, Carrie, I was such a fool to walk away," he whispered urgently. She whined, higher, urgently, and he continued his delicate assault of her pussy, until she felt her orgasm begin its inevitable climb. Rapid, quiet, muffled moans escaped her, as he mercilessly pushed her towards the edge. He was liquid fire, he was danger, his mad love for her poured out as frenzied lust, and he would not stop, he absolutely would not stop. Mouth still clamped, locking wild eyes with Quinn, she came, a keening sound muffled under his strong hand. His mouth dropped to her neck, sucking hard and stingingly, as he continued to stop her cries.

Her orgasm shocked her body in waves, the release of tension so great, she felt a small gush of fluid squirt down from her pussy. His sopping fingers stimulated her more gently, pressing, extending her orgasm for the longest possible time. She felt like there was molten lava flowing in her veins, she felt languor, savage languor, her limbs heavy as lead, completely at his mercy, and spent. Eyes closed, she felt him move, spread her legs, and get on top of her, positioning himself at her opening. With a hiss, he started to penetrate. Oh God, he was so welcome, she had missed him so much. A tear escaped her eyes, and she opened them again, to see his head dropping down, his lips bestowing a tender kiss on her damp forehead. He took his weight on his elbows, hovering over her, slowly thrusting, taking her, his eyes on her face like she was a priceless treasure that he had found, and couldn't bear to look away from.

"Quinn," she sighed, weeping softly, as his rhythm picked up. "I love you. I love you," it was so easy to say now. All she needed was to nearly lose him. "What an idiot I've been. Never leave me again," she begged, her loving outburst arousing him, causing him to fuck her harder, and faster. His breathing came quicker, and he said only, "I won't. I won't leave you, ever again." Quinn sensed the cadence of Carrie's desire, adjusted his thrusts to please her best, she wiggling her hips as he plunged more deeply. He wanted it to last longer, but couldn't, it had been too long, too much desire, too much pain. His eyes dripped a tear each onto her face, his buttocks flexed furiously, and he shot deliriously over the edge. Somehow, he bit his lip to stay quiet, as he filled her, his ass bucking in irregular, slowing surges. She grabbed him and pressed him in, as deep as he could go, her legs spread wide. Quinn nearly collapsed onto her, kissed her lips, gently. Stayed where he was, embracing her, the rise and fall of their chests slowing. There could be no measure of it, the feeling between them, the waiting, the simple desire for more, and then more.

Quinn finally pulled out of Carrie, the removal of his prick surprising her with a sharp sense of loss as she looked up at him. He bent to place a reverent kiss on her belly, and turning his face to the side, he laid down with his cheek on her body, the swell of her abdomen his pillow. Carrie's eyes were closed, and her hands found their way into his hair. Both of them wanted to talk, but fatigue and loneliness had taken their toll. They were too exhausted even for words. She wiggled, and he sat up, while she turned down the covers. Crawling into the soft bed, Quinn's arms went around Carrie, and she snuggled close to him, putting her head on his shoulder. He covered them both with the blankets, and stroked her arm softly while they drifted off.


	9. Chapter 9

Carrie slowly came awake, the morning light on her eyelids, streaming through the bedroom curtains. She had slept soundly for the first time in months, and consciousness was reluctant to lift the curtain on her day. She wriggled deeper into the pillow, trying to go back out. Then, she remembered. And opened her eyes.

Across from her in an overstuffed chair sat Peter Quinn, evidently fresh out of the shower, toweled hair standing delightfully on end, wearing only a black pair of jeans. On his bare flank lay the scar from his recent adventure, vivid and puckered in the morning light. His eyes, looking much more rested, regarded her bemusedly over the top of his folded hands.

"Good morning, beautiful," he said.

Carrie's heart cramped. A goddamn dream come true, this was. She sat up, feeling a trifle sore in her nether regions, and flushed a little to remember the urgency of the previous night. Quinn hadn't taken his eyes off her. "Hey," she said.

"You sleep well?"

"I did," she said, smiling at her feet. "It's kind of a unique experience. I couldn't sleep while you were gone."

"I know the feeling," he said.

She looked up at him, then stood and walked to the window. Holding back the curtain, she observed for a moment, then summarized, "Snowing. Huh."

"Yep. Quarter inch of snow, D.C. and Langely will be shut like a steel trap. Call in sick," he suggested. She laughed. She couldn't remember the last time she heard herself laugh. Grabbing her phone, she punched a few buttons and let the office know she wasn't coming in.

She looked down at him, smiling, then walked around to the side of his chair. Kneeling on the floor next to it, she put her hand out, and stroking gently, inspected Peter's healing bullet wound.

The delicacy of her touch raised goosebumps all over his body. God, what this woman's chemistry does to me, he thought. She pulled him forward to inspect all of it, then, satisfied, allowed him to sit back. "You seem to be healing well. Want to get that looked at?" she asked.

"Did you notice any problems with my function last night?" has asked, smiling suggestively.

"Uh, no," she shrugged, smiling and slightly embarrassed.

Her charm, her manner, God almighty; he had missed her more than he could stand. He reached down under Carrie's arms, lifted her up and sat her squarely in his lap. "Come here, you," he said, hugging her, eyes closed. Her eyes closed as well, and her head bent down on his shoulder.

"Now this is what I like, you naked on my lap. Are we going to start right now," Quinn murmured into the soft skin on the back of her neck, "Or should we get dressed and have breakfast first?" He held her tight, enjoying the feeling of her silky hair on his bare back and shoulders, until he felt a drop of liquid on his skin, felt her shaking, and realized that she was crying again.

"Hey… hey," he said, softly. He turned her face towards him, and gently wiped the tears from her cheeks. "I'm here now. It'll take some time, but I know we'll both put this behind us," he said.

"I was thinking about your letter," she said. "I can't believe you felt those things about me. And I never knew," She relaxed again, molding her body down into his, resting in his arms. He sighed.

"That goddamned letter," Quinn cursed. "You know the day I wrote that letter, I knew I was fucking things up. I should have called you, I should have at least come to say goodbye," he lamented.

"I would never have let you go," Carrie said.

"Exactly," Quinn said. "But I didn't know. I had taken a shot, tried to reach you. And when you said you were too broken for anyone to love you, I stopped loving myself, too." he said. Suddenly, his voice sounded desolate and empty. "I just didn't give a fuck about anything. I was an impulsive asshole, I came very close to dying, and I almost ruined both our lives," he said. "Carrie, you have to promise me, from now on, we talk to each other. About everything. If we ever decide to separate, it's going to be with an understanding of why." She nodded silently, head still on his shoulder.

They sat quietly, a moment more, ruminating over these thoughts. Then, Carrie suggested that they get dressed, go downstairs, and scare up some coffee. "I'm going to feed you, but Maggie's going to try to fatten you up," Carrie said, smiling, "so watch out." She pulled a sweater over her head, and yanked underpants on.

Quinn watched her dress, still feeling like a voyeur, but then reminded himself, no – this was his lover. He could watch her dress if he wanted to. It sent an erotic thrill down his spine. He pulled on a shirt and followed her downstairs to the kitchen. The house was quiet, as it was already ten o'clock in the morning, and Maggie and the older girls were off to work and school, while Sybil had taken Franny to a story hour at the local library. The peace, the silence, was alien to Quinn. But he liked it.

While Carrie brewed coffee, he picked up a thread of the conversation. "Is it too early to ask you something important? I need to ask Maggie too, but the second issue only concerns you," he said.

She looked at him, a slightly worried furrow in her brow. "Per our new agreement, you can ask me anything. What?"

"I was hoping to stay with you two for a few weeks," he said, "while I process out. Then, I need to figure out what the fuck I'm going to do next," he said. "I have a couple of ideas, and I know I said we had to get out together, but you have to be on board with that. I want you, and I need you, Carrie. But I don't own you," he said finally.

Carrie poured coffee, set her mug on the counter, and was about to hand a cup to Quinn, when she pulled it back, almost sloshing it on her arm. "Fuck, I just realized. I don't even know how you take your coffee," she said, laughing nervously. He took the cup carefully out of her hand, set it gently on the kitchen island, so as to prevent further mishaps, and said, "Black is fine."

She sat next to him, her bed hair hanging messily, charmingly on either side of her face, her lashes shining gold in the morning sun. God, Quinn thought, I could eat her up. We better be careful, or we'll never get out of bed. The idea had its appeal. Finally, Carrie looked up and spoke.

"First of all, you can stay with us as long as you need to," she said. "I don't have to ask Maggie to know she'll agree. She likes you."

Quinn smiled. "I'm glad," he said.

"And now, about work…While you were gone, I changed jobs, you know that, right?"

"I didn't know exactly, but it doesn't surprise me," he said.

"I couldn't move out of country, I had to have something that kept me close. And I wanted to look for you. Lockhart suggested something that would keep me local, let me keep searching, give me eyes in the sky. So he posted me to the Middle East Surveillance team," she said.

"The wiretappers? I'm amazed," he said.

"We're  _analysts_ ," she said, irritated. "And we do an amazing amount of background work for the jocks out in the field."

"I'm sorry, I know that," he said lightly, "But I can't see you being satisfied with something, so, well," - he searched for a word that was not insulting –"office-based."

She sipped coffee, looked at him sadly. Looked out the window at the snowflakes coming down. "When Dad died," she said, "I felt the earth move under my feet. Then, you left," she said, the hiccup in her voice suggesting tears were not far behind. "Suddenly, getting ahead at my work seemed very unimportant. I used to live to work, I used to shove my feelings down deep. I was the Drone Queen, remember? But after the clusterfuck in Islamabad, losing so many of our people, then the loss of my Dad, and you... being missing… getting ahead, ambition, none of that shit mattered to me anymore, Quinn."

Carrie set the cup down with a clunk. "My heart was so completely broken, waiting to hear from you, lying awake at night, wondering if you were dead or alive. How could I pretend to care about my  _career_? The only thing I cared about was finding you. I thought about you night and day, and during that time, it became clear to me that I had been missing out on the important things my whole life," she said. He reached out and grabbed her hand, squeezing it.

"My job is enough for me," she said. "I'm good at it, I like it, I can use my training. I'm  _useful_. And I can be with Maggie, and the girls, and Franny…. and you," she said, her direct stare fixing him in place. He met her gaze for a minute, then looked down.

"Now, we need to talk about your job," she said severely, "or lack of one. I don't want you to go on a mission like that, ever again," she said fervently. He still clutched her hand.

"I don't want to either," said Quinn, "But you know me, Carrie. For the last twelve years, this is all I've done," he finished helplessly.

She shook her head. "Suddenly, I'm the queen of advice," she laughed. "I'm not sure I'm in a position to help anyone make big decisions," she said, "but I can tell you some things for sure."

He looked at her expectantly, inwardly wincing a little, some part of him insecure, still expecting condemnation.

"One, you're going to figure something out. Something that makes you feel good, something that lets you use your mind, and your talents. Something you can live with, that lets you sleep at night. And two, I will love you every minute of your life until you figure out what that is," she said. Her eyes, so blue. He had literally crawled across a desert with a gunshot wound to see those eyes again.

He raised her hand to his lips, and kissed it.

Just then, the door opened, and Sybil and Franny arrived. "Look, Franny, Mommy's home," Sybil cooed. "Hey, is she still set to go?" Carrie asked, looking at her watch. "If you don't think she's too hungry, Peter and I would like to take her to the park," she said. "I'm sure she'll be ok for a short stroll," the nanny said, and left the two to gather their coats and keys, while Franny watched them, thumb in her mouth, solemn as a little owl.

Carrie pushed Franny in the stroller, while Quinn walked beside her, hands in his pockets. "I have some ideas," he said, "but so much of my life has been spent doing, you know. Things I can't talk about. I'm worried, that I can't be just, you know, normal."

"Yeah, normal life," Carrie said. "Remember when you shipped back in from Islamabad, you said you wanted to see what it's like?" He nodded, watching his shoes as they strolled.

"Well," she said, "Here we are. This is normal. And we've got each other," she said, looking over at him. "I bet you can adapt."

Quinn reached out and put his hand over Carrie's, on top of the stroller handle. A second later, she pulled her hand away. "What is it?" he asked.

"I need to text someone," she said. She punched in a few numbers and a short message, and pressed send.

Minutes later, they arrived at the park. Carrie went to her usual bench, and released Franny from her stroller. The child toddled off in the direction of the low climber, and Quinn and Carrie sat down on the bench together. As natural as can be, she thought, as he put his arm around her.

"Normal life," he said.

"Yeah, see? How does it feel?"

"Feels good," he admitted, watching Franny climb and play.

"We're both fucked up, Quinn," Carrie admitted, "and I don't expect everything to go perfectly. There is no happily ever after in this world," she said.

"I'll settle for happy now, and maybe tomorrow." he said, his arm around her, hand rubbing her shoulder gently.

From behind the pine trees, a booming voice was heard, hallooing, and laughing. Peter jumped. "Take it easy, Quinn, don't shoot anyone," she said sarcastically. He looked sideways at her, irritated. A moment later, a sixty-something African-American gentleman emerged from behind the bushes, walking heavily towards Carrie, arms wide open. She stood up and smiled, and he cheered again.

"Whoooo-hooo!" he yelled, walking up to her, "Carrie, I can't believe it, I can't believe it, I am so glad, just so damn happy for you." The man pulled her into a huge bear hug, pounding her on the back, still laughing, and then releasing her, turned to Quinn.

"And you must be Peter. I am so very glad to meet you, sir," he said, offering his hand. Quinn stood up, and shook his hand solemnly. "I'm Billy, I was a friend of Carrie's father," the man offered, "And I have been hoping and praying that you would make it  _home,_ " he said, with grave emphasis. Quinn raised an eyebrow, while Carrie smiled at him.

"Well, thank you," Quinn said, slightly taken aback. "I'm very glad to  _be_  home."

"You have to take good care of this little lady, now," Billy said, patting Carrie on the back. "Not a minute went by that she wasn't worrying about you."

"I intend to," Quinn said. But he was looking at Carrie, not at Billy.

The three of them sat on the park bench, Carrie and Billy catching up, and Quinn mostly just listening. Franny toddled over to the bench, and Billy smiled at her. "Do you like the snow, baby girl?" he asked sweetly. "You know you can catch the snowflakes on your tongue? Try it."

The three looked on as Franny's small face turns towards the sky. Snowflakes drift down around them, and the child tries and tries to catch them. Mostly, she misses. But she keeps on trying, never gives up.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's notes: The end of HL season four brought a horrible pang of uncertainty, as we saw The Letter, handed off as Quinn went on a dangerous mission. I spent a number of days ruminating over how we could show the reader the content of the letter, without writing an utter tragedy, and still make it a believable premise. I think I succeeded, mostly, as long as one is willing to buy into my version of the way global operations, the CIA, and black ops work. Undoubtedly, crazy things happen in the field, and I think we can all agree that the government is not expert in its communications.
> 
> The other item I struggled with is the aftermath - it was tempting to end after Chapter 7. But after giving the readers the smut they undoubtedly earned, by suffering through the grief chapters, I realized that I wanted to see these two dumbs bookended, trying to figure out what they were going to do next. No great change of character takes place overnight in real life, and neither does it here. But I think if Quinn and Carrie (as seen in chapter 9) now treasure their love, they have as good a chance as any other couple of figuring out their way. In so many ways, they are perfectly suited. 
> 
> I loved painting a larger role for Maggie, and using the wonderful "park friend" character as shown in episode 4.12, as sources of support and compassion. I really felt this while I was writing it - in fact, during the three furious days and nights that I wrote it, I spent a great deal of time crying. I think it shows and I think it was worth it.
> 
> Musical note - while I was mentally panning out on the very end of chapter nine, watching Franny, Quinn, Billy and Carrie in the park, the song I listened to - on repeat - was "I Need my Girl" by The National. Recommended listening for reading the end of that chapter. See if you don't agree.


End file.
